


Tender Touch

by QDS



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, Fingerfucking, Kink Meme, Manipulations, Older Man/Younger Woman, Spanking, Underage Sex, gameofkink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-02
Updated: 2011-06-02
Packaged: 2017-10-20 01:28:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/207349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QDS/pseuds/QDS
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa is upset and angry at her father's decision, and Lord Baelish is on hand to offer comfort, and more besides.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tender Touch

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/gameofkink/profile)[**gameofkink**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/gameofkink/) kink meme, to the following [prompt](http://gameofkink.livejournal.com/517.html?thread=31493#t31493). Spoilers for first 6 episodes. Written in a fit of 'this is hot, and sick, and wrong...but must be done!'

Against all of Septa's entreaties, Sansa refused to help her gather up her material possessions for the journey back to Winterfell. She sat with her arms crossed, glaring at Septa, who several times scolded her, until Sansa had enough.

"How could he? How can he do this to me!"

"Sansa, he means only to protect you. I'm sure he has made the right decision."

Sansa glared at Septa. "You cannot possibly understand the pain I am going through."

Septa narrowed her eyes. "You would be surprised. Now stop this behaviour and help me."

"No. I won't. Father will have to drag me back to Winterfell with his bare hands!"

"Sansa!"

But Sansa was off and out the door, running from her room and Septa as fast as she could.

Soon she found herself sitting in the dark of the gardens, huddled over on a bench, crying. The thought of maybe never seeing Joffrey again plagued her. Perhaps, she thought, as she elegantly wipe her tears away, he may find her in the gardens right now, comfort her, and raise the ire of his parents so that she might stay in King's Landing.

She only realised that someone was standing in front of her when she heard a man's cough.

Sansa looked up, eagerly, plaintively, but saw that it was not Joffrey, but Lord Baelish.

He was always so immaculate and carefully attired, and really quite clever (though his knowledge often scared Sansa a little) that Sansa, though disappointed it was not Joffrey, knew she must have looked awfully red and rotten with her crying. She hurriedly tried to rid herself of her tears.

Lord Baelish still noticed. "Why Sansa, you are weeping. Do you mind if I sit by you? Perhaps I can be of some comfort."

"If you like, but it will do little good." Despite herself, the tears began to well again.

Lord Baelish sat, and Sansa saw he was genuinely concerned. Without further prompting, she said, "My father is sending my sister and I back to Winterfell."

"Oh, I am sorry to hear that. I would have wished to get to know you better."

Sansa smiled, just a little. Lord Baelish's voice was kind, and he sounded genuinely grieved at her awful predicament.

"I don't want to go! I want to stay here, and one day marry Joffrey and become queen."

Lord Baelish nodded. "Indeed. I had hoped that would be the case myself."

He was on her side! Sansa looked at him, suffused with a renewed passion, and she spilled more of her woes to him. All the while, Lord Baelish's features were full of understanding and sympathy.

At last he said, "It is hard to be young and in love – believe me, I know."

Oh, it had been so long since someone was kind to her like that. Joffrey had been romantic and lovely, but that was different. It had been so long since they had only listened to her troubles and not dismissed them.

It only served to bring more tears. She held her hands to her face, and let herself sob. Lord Baelish placed a hand on the back of her shoulder. Sansa leaned into the touch, so grateful for his kindness.

"Come, Sansa. I think you need a drink and something to wipe those tears away."

Sansa stood with him, and swayed into Lord Baelish's crooked arm, and he lead her out of the garden.

In his chamber, she sat before his desk while he poured her a cup of wine. He passed it to her, along with a small cloth. Sansa dabbed her eyes and face, and sipped carefully at the wine, still sniffling a little, but feeling much better the more she drank, and with Lord Baelish's looking at her so sweetly.

"You are being very kind to me, Lord Baelish."

He held up his hands in a surprised gesture. "How could I not? You are the daughter of Catelyn Tully. I have always had such an affection for your mother."

It was strange hearing her mother's maiden name spoken. She was so used to thinking of her as a Stark.

Sansa said, filling her voice with bitterness, "I think my mother will be glad if I am not wed to Joffrey. It is not fair! She married a man she loved – why should I not?"

"I know, I know." Lord Baelish nodded as he spoken, and he leaned forward, closer to her. "It is so hard to be torn from the one you love. So very hard."

He held out a hand to her, and Sansa quickly took it. It was warm, smooth, quite elegant, like everything else in King's Landing. How could she go back to living her life up in the North now, after all this finery? Lord Baelish understood, she knew he understood her pain perfectly. She smiled at him, and he rubbed her hand.

"I am afraid I probably cannot prevent your departure from King's Landing, though I shall insist on having a quiet word to your father to let my displeasure be known."

"Thank you, Lord Baelish. I am glad someone apart from Joffrey will miss me."

"Indeed. I think, though, I may be able to help alleviate some of your pain." He squeezed her hand, tenderly. “Would you like that?"

Sansa's heart swelled a little, looking into Lord Baelish's eyes. "I would like that very much, my Lord."

Lord Baelish smiled. He looked so pleased to help her.

"Then I will. But first, there is something I must know. You see, I think, that beneath your fear and grief of leaving Joffrey, there is something else which you feel quite terrible about."

At that, Sansa went very still. Lord Baelish's eyes were very pleasant, as were his words, but underneath them rang something quite different. She looked at her lap, at the cup still held there, and fumbled with it. Had he heard about what had happened on the King's Road? Did he blame her for it? Everyone else did, even though it was she who lost her beautiful Lady. But Joffrey had been...no, she would not think about how Joffrey had behaved, she would not think about the awfulness that happened, and what she might have done, or not.

Until, with a single, forceful finger, Lord Baelish lifted her chin so she looked into his eyes. "Is there, Sansa?"

Her voice was a whisper when she spoke. "Yes, Lord Baelish."

Lord Baelish smiled his knowing smile, one that she'd seen on her first day of meeting him, that said to the world he knew more than anyone else possibly ever could. "I thought as much."

Sansa gulped. "I -- "

"Shh..." Lord Baelish turned his hand under her chin, curling it so his fingers brushed up along her cheek. His touch tingled like hot pinpricks.

"Some things are best left unsaid. I do not need to hear the confession of your soul."

He leaned back, hand leaving her skin, burning more without his touch.

"Did you know, Sansa, that sometimes there is a great deal of comfort in pain?"

The two words, comfort and pain, seemed so opposite that Sansa was immediately intrigued, but also a little frightened. She said, "I did not, my Lord."

"Shall I explain?"

Sansa didn't respond, feeling her chest begin to tighten, inexplicably. Lord Baelish spoke regardless.

"Our pain aches in our hearts, but it is not always sharp. It hangs like a dull weight, wanting to drop but yet we cannot let it go, for the pain has become our comfort, our assurance that we feel something, anything at all, for while the pain has numbed as, it has, in some strange twist of fate, become our friend too. Are you following my meaning, Sansa?"

She was not entirely, but Sansa nodded anyway.

"But sometimes, the pain becomes unbearable, so heavy and full that it threatens to break us. We crave release. Yet not the soft, gentle release of a tender nursemaid, a soothing touch, but a sharp explosion, a feeling that sends the pain out of our body all at once. We wish instead for the hand of a stern instructor, someone who knows precisely that in order to rid us of the pain in our souls, we must open ourselves to the pain of the flesh."

His words both scared and thrilled her. His mellifluous voice rolled over them, entreating her to lean closer to him, to try and understand, even though her mind did not fully comprehend his meaning. Lord Baelish made her want to feel everything he spoke of, and her body responded with fire in her chest and inner loins.

He urged closer to her again, and his eyes, usually so calm, were cast like the sky just before clouds gathered for a storm. "Your pain, your guilt, you want to rid that from your mind and soul, for it compounds the pain of loss you will surely experience when you are taken from Joffrey. I can be the instructor Sansa. I can give you that release."

Lord Baelish leaned back, and parted his knees. "Would you like that, Sansa?"

Her mouth had grown dry, as the thoughts of this release were mysterious but intoxicating, releasing pain enticed her, but Sansa was still able to say yes.

The right side of Lord Baelish's mouth ticked up, and he patted his left knee.

"Lift up your skirts, and bend over my lap."

Her hesitation was only brief. With an ache in her chest, and a trembling hand at the promise that lay before her, Sansa stood, and obeyed Lord Baelish's instruction.

*

Petyr waited until Sansa had lowered herself onto his lap before he allowed himself to grin. She let go of her skirts, now gathered at her waist, and let her weight fall onto his thighs. Petyr tucked her a little closer to his own stomach, exceedingly pleased that his words had weaved their charms and convinced her to place herself in this very position.

It had been a long time since he had been so close to a Tully.

Sansa's chest, resting on his legs, rose and fell. Her breathing was audible, a little haggard, and the rest of her body felt like a tight knot. He brushed her beautiful hair with his knuckles.

"It's all right. It's all right..." he whispered.

Petyr hiked her skirts up just a little more to reveal the very spot where the curve of her buttocks began. Two love globes of pale pink flesh presented themselves to him, and he murmured his appreciation. Below them, her slender thighs stretched down. Petyr let his hand drop to stroke one. It was soft, and when he squeezed it, supple and firm, yet yielding.

This close to him, the scent of her filled his nostrils. Petyr closed his eyes, and thanked the gods that Sansa had none of the dank Stark smell about her, but instead, all her mother's fresh and airy tint.

He caressed her back, fingers dancing along the embroidery of her dress, and beneath him, he felt her swallow.

"Are you going to spank me, Lord Baelish? Like a naughty child?" she asked, her voice with a slight waver.

Her tremulous tone went to his head like a strong wine. Petyr chuckled.

"Spank you...yes, Sansa. That's exactly what I intend to do." He trailed his fingers up the inside of her thigh, until they found the spot where the cheeks of her buttocks met.

"But like a child..." He swiftly drew his hand up, and brought it down with a decisive slap. "Hardly."

Sansa gasped at the strike, and her body twitched. She slipped forward a little, and Petyr eased his leg out, and allowed to to grasp onto his shin. He brushed her soft, lovely hair once more, and teased the spot of his first strike with his finger tips.

"Are you ready, my dear?"

Sansa nodded. Petyr saw that she was screwing up her eyes very tightly, and her grip on his leg strengthened.

As he raised his hand again, he let his smile grow fully, felt his chest swell with delicious anticipation, and began.

Each slap was a hard, flat hit against Sansa's flesh. At first, he was steady and slow, savouring her every reaction as his hand came down. She squeaked, twitched, squirmed, and wriggled, sometimes cried out when he was particularly sharp in his blow. He gave each cheek equal attention, sometimes alternating, other times slapping one for a while before turning attention to the other. All the while, he brushed her hair with his other hand, saying her name, cooing reassurances, telling her she was doing very well.

Petyr soon found, though, that all that pent up rage, all his horrible frustrations, heartache, and disappointments, came coursing through his hand, and ultimately marked themselves on Sansa's skin.

Slap! For Cat's lovely face that saw him as nothing but a friend. Whack! For Brandon Stark and his damned nobility. Smack! For the scar Brandon left him. Slap! For Ned Stark, for taking Cat in the end, and leaving Petyr alone again...

Three solid strikes he made to the spot between her cheeks, and Sansa cried out loudly, writhing on his lap, and Petyr realised that her movements were grinding against his cock, and it was very, very hard indeed.

"Take it, take it, take it," he chanted, slapping again and again. "You need it, you need the pain, lovely Sansa, don't you?"

"Yes...Lord Baelish...oh!"

Another strike, but this time, he dug his fingers into her right buttock, her skin red but very white where his nails met flesh. Sansa squealed. Petyr grabbed the back of her head, raised it up a little, and looked into her face. A single rivulet of tear drops lay down her cheeks. Nothing more.

"Very good, Sansa. Very good." He let her go, and she flopped forward, clutching at his leg anew.

Petyr was about to pull back and begin his slaps again, but as he drew away, a distinct stickiness gathered close to his thumb. Almost intolerable pleasure burbled in his stomach and engorged his cock as he slipped his hand between Sansa's legs, and found that her quim was almost drenched. Sansa stiffened and whimpered, and she tried to shuffle away from his searching fingers. Petyr held her tightly, and with tips of his fore and middle finger, ran down the length of her soft, wet folds.

"Oh, Sansa..."

*

Curled across Lord Baelish's lap, Sansa's body was on fire. The pain of the slaps, so much harder than anything she'd been given as a child, made her forgot everything else in her mind. Thoughts of Joffrey, her anger towards her father, the pain of leaving, the loss of Lady, what had befallen on the King's Road, all left her mind one by one, and were replaced by her whole body prickling with the pain of Lord Baelish's hand. She resisted and wanted each hit, cried out as the slaps became more brutal, spurning her onwards. Her tiny nub that she had only recently discovered, the spot between her legs that gave her such a curious pleasure, rocked against Lord Baelish's thigh. The strikes, the rocking made her whole body tingling with an immense feeling of wanting to let go. But let go of what? She clung with such desperation to Lord Baelish's leg, fearing she would fall from his lap if she did not.

It was only when the strikes ceased, and he slid his fingers below her cheeks, and reached for her quim, that she began to be afraid. Oh gods, what would he think of her? Would he take her for one of his whores? Oh gods...he stopped her from moving, and Lord Baelish's fingers stroked her folds. She knew then that her quim was wet. Oh gods...

"Oh Sansa..."

Lord Baelish's voice was not disapproving, but very husky and low, a keening sound matching her own body's feelings.

"My Lord Baelish..." she began.

"Oh, no need to say anything, Sansa," he purred. With two fingers, he parted the lips of her quim, and slowly sank them into her. "I know exactly what you need."

No one's hand but Sansa's had ever stroked her there. And even then, she had never touched herself inside, only out. She made several tiny gasps, puffs of breath as Lord Baelish felt his way into her, and then, once his fingers were buried deep inside her, began to stroke.

Sansa mewled, the intense, delicious sensation filling her body and quim totally. Above her, Lord Baelish sighed. Sansa rocked back against his fingers, so eager now for his touch, and when she did so, she noticed for the first time a hardness pressing into her stomach.

Oh. She bit her lip. Lord Baelish, she now knew, had a very keen erection.

"My Lord...you are...you are...ah!"

He twisted his fingers into her, giving her a sharp pain. "Yes?"

"You are..." She was too embarrassed to speak the words, and instead pressed meaningfully into his lap.

Lord Baelish chuckled. "You need not concern yourself with that, my dear."

"But don't men wish for...satisfaction?"

"Satisfaction may be found in so many ways. For example, you found it as I was spanking you, yes?"

She hesitated, but soon nodded.

"And you now find it again as I touch you?"

She nodded again.

"So, what, I wonder, would happen if I did this?"

Lord Baelish crooked his fingers inside her, but as he did so, his other hand left the back of her head, and he brought it down once more on her buttocks.

"Lord Baelish!"

A satisfied murmur. "I thought so."

And so he continued. Lord Baelish twirled his fingers about, and soon he found a way to stroke her both inside and out, a deft finger tip rolling her nub around. He spanked her still, all the while stroking, probing, rubbing her quim. Sansa clutched to his shin, moaning and keening and crying out, the pain and the pleasure now indistinguishable from each other. It was all one, her body was a trembling mass of pulsing fire and blood. More and more and more, and above her, Lord Baelish was chanting "Yes, yes, yes, Sansa, Sansa, Sansa, that's it, that's it, that's it.”"

Then she was at the precipice, at the point where she craved release so badly, yet wanted more and more pleasure and pain. Tears were streaming down her cheeks and she heard herself beg Lord Baelish for something, she didn't know what, but she begged and cried out and rocked against him...and then it began. At first it was rose like a lit match, a spark, and then it grew, and grew, until a great crashing wave of such beautiful, hot feeling burst out from her nub and flooded all over her body.

Sansa screamed, and Lord Baelish clamped his hand over her mouth. Her body continued to convulse, and he held her at either end, kept her cries contained and his fingers rubbing and juddering inside her. Suddenly, Lord Baelish bent his body over her back. She felt his breath at her neck, and his body gave a tremendous jerk.

Soon, all too soon, the waves began to ebb. She began to pant instead. Lord Baelish released her mouth. Her gasps filled the air. Lord Baelish above her too was panting. His hands had ceased their movement, and dropped from her quim. She sighed, both revealed at the loss and feeling empty for their presence.

Lord Baelish eased his hand once more on the back of her head, and as he stroked it, he said, "I think you found the release you were after, Sansa."

Slowly, Sansa dropped her legs, now aching from the strain of keeping herself on his lap, to the floor. She began to stand. Lord Baelish helped her upright, though he himself remained seated. Her skirts fell back, covering her sopping wet quim and aching buttocks. She briefly struggled to be still. Lord Baelish held her waist, and made her stand steady.

She looked into Lord Baelish's face. His brow was sweaty, his mustache and beard both wet with perspiration. At his neck a dampness gathered. Her eyes then dropped to the spot at the centre of his lap, and she saw a damp patch had formed where she had lain.

"My Lord Baelish has...found satisfaction too," she observed, quietly.

He only smiled his cunning smile. She said, "I am glad you have. For I..." Her face turned a little red to admit how she had felt.

Lord Baelish said, "You are kind to consider mine. After all, I only wished to help you with your pain."

Sansa giggled. There was a tiny voice in her mind that suggested this may not be entirely true.

"You have my Lord. You have."

"I am glad."

Sansa bowed her head. "I think perhaps I must go and find Septa now, Lord Baelish. I am..." The thought of Joffrey came to her, and made her sad, but she was somehow now resigned to her fate, "more content than I was."

"Of course."

She turned to go, and Lord Baelish added, "Do feel that you can call on me anytime before you leave King's Landing. I should be most obliged to assist you in anyway I can."

Sansa nodded solemnly, and as she walked down the corridors, a tiny, knowing smile played at her lips.

*

After Sansa had gone, Petyr raised his fingers to his mouth; the ones that had been buried deep in her soft quim, and sucked. He licked and relished her flavour until only the scent of her lingered on them. It was tantalising and torturous, so close and yet so far from Cat...

Petyr chuckled, wondering just what Ned Stark would think if he had found the two of them in such a state, his beloved daughter in exquisite agony, being spanked like a whore pretending to beg for it. The thought almost made him hard again.

But he contented himself to wait. For that was all he knew he would have to do.

–  
End


End file.
